


Hello Time-Bomb

by seekingsquake



Series: Beautiful Midnight [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce on the run, Gen, he makes friends everywhere, it's a talent pretty much, song fic sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingsquake/pseuds/seekingsquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce didn't hate being a fugitive. He just hated everything that went along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello Time-Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> I do not speak any Spanish or Turkish. I'm sorry if I've slaughtered those languages here. I don't mean to offend anyone.
> 
> I do not own anything, and am not affiliated with anyone who does. But I did get a Hulk Pez dispenser for my birthday.  
> Please do not repost or reupload this piece anywhere without consent. If you ask, I'm sure we can work something out :]
> 
> Inspired by the song Hello Time-Bomb by Matthew Good.

Bruce didn’t hate being a fugitive. He hated the situation that forced him into running and hiding like some sort of coward, or criminal, or animal, and he hated the fact that he couldn’t safely contact Betty, and he hated the thing that was boiling constantly just under the thin layers of his skin. But he didn’t hate being a fugitive.

The thing about Bruce was that he loved learning. He adored uncovering new things and mastering new tasks and incorporating new knowledge into his daily life. That’s why he loved science so much; it was all discovery and application.

In that respect, being the most wanted man in America and being a scientist were very similar. Every day that he was on the run, he learned something new. About survival techniques, whatever language he was trying to learn, and poverty in the South American mountain communities. About how to know when a coconut is just on the perfect side of ripe, drug cartels, prostitution, and non-unionized soda bottling factories. About himself.

And really, under the circumstances and the fact that he now had a disaster under his skin that would pour forth if he didn’t keep a tight hold of it, that was the most important thing, wasn’t it? For the first time in his whole life, Bruce Banner was exploring and learning about himself.

It would have been sort of funny if it hadn’t been such a dismal scenario. Most people start the journey of self discovery when they’re toddlers, and then really start picking and prodding at themselves, pulling themselves apart and putting themselves back together when they’re in their teens and early twenties. Usually by the time someone is in their mid to late thirties, they know who they are. They know what they want.

Bruce didn’t.

Bruce was fumbling around with the ideas of self and identity and ego the way a four year old struggles tying their shoes on their own. It was pathetic and infuriating and fucking frustrating. And there was so much pressure on him because unlike toddlers and teenagers fighting with the same ideas, he couldn’t make a mistake. He couldn’t fuck up. If he fucked up, he could change and rampage and kill people. Bruce didn’t know a whole lot about himself or what he wanted out of his life, but he knew he didn’t want that. Underneath all the frustration and anger and pressure though, underneath all the self loathing and regret, a very small part of Bruce couldn’t help but think that he was on some sort of crazy adventure, couldn’t help but think that maybe, when he wasn’t worried about losing control and fucking up and smashing things, that this whole thing was kind of...

Fun.

He wondered if that made him a weirdo, but he just couldn’t help himself.

✧✧✧

Bruce’s mother lived her life filled to the brim and overflowing with optimism. She had often told him that he was going to be dealt some awful hands, but that it was his job to make the best of it. _Sometimes you’ve got to turn shit into gold, Baby Boy, because no one else is gonna do it for you_. Bruce didn’t have an easy time of it; he was more naturally inclined to be cynical and pessimistic, but he tried so hard to make the best of things once he was running. What else could he do? And eventually it became second nature for him to see the silver linings in all the dark clouds.

He was in the Peruvian city of Talara, working as a dock hand at the main port. He’d been there for nearly two months, and he couldn’t help but think that that was the longest he’d stayed in one place in nearly three years. The others had taken to calling him Berto because he picked Spanish up quickly, could fix almost anything, and had a wealth of random knowledge that no one really knew what to do with. He liked it, being called Berto, because he didn’t often feel very smart anymore but it was nice to know they saw him like that anyway.

These people were smart too. Maybe not in the way of scientists or intellectuals, but people-wise. He’d never told them much of anything regarding himself, but many of the other men working the port would look at him as if they could see through him, as if they knew, and they kept most of their questions to themselves. One of the things Bruce had learned about himself was that he really didn’t like having to lie to people.

But he’d do it anyway.

It was a typical Tuesday afternoon. He was having lunch with a guy named Emanuel, and there was a lull in the conversation that allowed Bruce to enjoy the sea breeze and the smell of the ocean. When the quiet was broken by Emanuel’s rumbling tenor, Bruce had to listen especially carefully to the words. He picked up Spanish much quicker than he’d picked up Hindi or Quechuan, but he was mostly only comfortable with phrases used around the docks for work purposes.

“¿De qué estás huyendo?” _What are you running from?_

Bruce pondered his answer for a long time before settling on, “Yo mismo, en su mayoría.” _Myself, mostly._

“Nunca he visto que sea muy eficaz.” _I’ve never seen that be very effective._

Bruce laughs. He shakes his head and grins a little and says in English, “It isn’t. But I’m doing it anyway.”

Emanuel says, “Usted puede estar seguro aquí,” and then he finishes his lunch, pats Bruce on the shoulder, and walks away. Bruce turns the phrase in his head over and over, and that night when he’s back in his little hut of a home, curled around himself in bed, he thinks about it more. He can feel the heavy itch at the back of his eyes that usually precedes tears and he lets himself laugh out a wet, choked chuckle.

He’s spent two months here. No one’s military has uncovered him. He hasn’t had an incident since his time in Surinam. And he works with a man at the port who says _you can be safe here_ as if he knows what he’s talking about. He likes this town, he likes these people, and he sort of likes who he is now that he’s here. He isn’t sure he remembers what happiness feels like, but he wonders if this comes close.

✧✧✧

He breaks Talara like he breaks everything else. And he goes on to break the cities of Cobija, Villa Hayes, and Fray Marcos. Three cities in three different countries in a matter of weeks. He wakes up one evening in Liberia and he doesn’t know how he managed to cross the Atlantic Ocean. _Can we swim?_ he asks himself, and the Other Guy rumbles, and Bruce is very frightened of the implications of that while at the same time thinking _that’s kinda cool I guess_. His next thought is that it’s lucky that English is the official language of Liberia. He calls himself Rob and sets about looking for food, pants, and maybe a job of some sort. He stays for three days before he gets nervous and starts moving again. He doesn’t stop for four months.

✧✧✧

He enters Turkey through the port city of Antalya, and he is only there for a handful of hours before he meets a girl. Her name is Afet and she takes him into her home with steady hands and calm eyes. She feeds him a large supper and tucks him into her bed.

“What are you doing?” he asks her, but her eyes don’t seem to register any recognition. Bruce has no idea about the Turkish language. He stumbles through a couple phrases in Arabic before Afet can respond to him, and for the rest of the night they communicate using a blend of broken English, Turkish, Arabic, and charades. It’s late when she crawls into bed with him, his body stiff as she rests her head on his chest.

She presses her ear against the place where his heart beats against his breastbone and her tongue is clumsy around the words, “You are hiding?”

“Yes,” he whispers, and he’s too afraid to stay there but too afraid to move.

Her hands are folded between their bodies. She makes no move to touch him any more than she already is. She whispers, “Neden?” against the shirt he’s wearing and when he doesn’t answer she pulls one of her hands free and draws a Y into his pectoral muscle. “Neden?” Another Y is drawn.

He thinks he understands. He says, “I’m a timebomb.” He doesn’t think she understands, and he doesn’t know how to make it so that she does. But he doesn’t much feel like explaining himself, so he closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how it happens, but his hand ends up in her hair, and her hand ends up underneath his shirt and pressed against his abdomen. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, or even how he manages it, but he wakes up alone.

He finds a piece of paper taped to his shirt that reads _Hepimiz öyle değil miyiz?_ and he has no idea what that means. He folds the paper into a neat little square and puts it in the pocket he’d cut in the sole of his left shoe. He makes Afet’s bed and tidies up her kitchen before he leaves. He doesn’t look back, but his fingers dance over his chest where she’d drawn the Y and he turns the word neden in his head over and over again.

✧✧✧

When Bruce comes back to himself, he’s on his back and Tony is hovering over him. “We did it, Big Guy,” he’s saying, and Bruce struggles to sit up and remember what happened. He gets a glimpse of Loki in his mind’s eye, and of the Chitauri, and Tony falling, and he shudders.

Tony pulls him up and hurries him to the elevator. “While you’re here, hurry, I gotta show you the labs. Before Fury forces us to debrief or whatever. Come on.”

He doesn’t give Bruce time to breathe before he’s dragging him around, showing him high tech, expensive, pristine equipment and babbling on and on. Then Tony says, “Have fun! Explore!” and breezing is out, leaving Bruce alone. He doesn’t even think about it. He takes his shoe off and pries open the pocket and commandeers the nearest screen. He smirks as his fingers brush over the paper, dirty and faded and somehow miraculously still in one piece after two years. It’s a rough translation at best, but he thinks of that nuke and of Thor’s hammer and of Fury. He thinks of Tony prodding what he probably shouldn’t, and he thinks that when Afet left him a note that said _aren’t we all_ she was definitely smarter than he was.

As long as he didn’t stop learning though, maybe he’d catch up.


End file.
